


A Prologue

by sanerontheinside



Series: Silent enim leges inter arma [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Qui-Gon Lives, the frankenau
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13169538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: Introduce another variable into the problem, and the cascade of events will change.





	1. Duel for Fate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [davaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/davaia/gifts), [flamethrower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamethrower/gifts), [Poplitealqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poplitealqueen/gifts), [jessebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessebee/gifts), [Meggory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meggory/gifts).



> Some might want to know right off the bat: this series is a slowburn. I haven't tagged QuiObi, and the relationship ship won't appear for quite some time after this, but this note is for anyone who'd like the opportunity to back out before the start.

_[10.16 hours, 18.11.5199]_

 

In all the time he’d known Maul, the Zabrak had barely spoken two words together. Most of his language seemed limited to snarls and baleful sulfurous-yellow glares. He’d smile back with a curve to his lips all too feral, tip his head in the barest sketch of a nod, all the time waiting. Waiting for his chance to deliver Maul to Sidious as a failure, albeit the result of his own careful, delicate sabotage. 

Sidious would know, of course. The bastard always knew. But it wasn't as though he expected to keep both Apprentices, surely. No—survival of the fittest, that was what Sidious wanted. Maul was an excellent specimen, a sterling example of a weapon honed by and tempered with hate and pain. Sidious’s weapon, an evolutionary marvel if your study was pure brute force. 

An assassin, but not a successor. Never a threat to Sidious himself. 

And that was, in part, the risk of getting rid of him. It would attract Sidious's attention, snap it tightly onto his other pet, show him far too much of the cards his lowly remaining Apprentice held. Maul’s death was therefore never to be risked, unless and until the stakes were high enough. 

They certainly were now. 

Maul stood in the hangar bay, waiting, far more patience coiled about him and holding him in place than he'd ever thought possible for the Zabrak. He almost felt sorry for what he was about to do—for the meticulous work he was about to destroy. But no, this was a matter of protecting what was _his_ and his alone. 

He waited until the very last moment to relax his shielding, letting his rival sense his approach. Outwardly, he smiled at Maul, as friendly as ever. 

In truth, Maul’s voice was soft, astoundingly so.  It had a quiet rasp—like a heat haze dancing over coals in a fire pit. “What are you doing here?” 

“Why, our Master sent me,” he replied cheerily. “To finish the job when you fail, of course.” 

Maul’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, nostrils flaring, eyes ablaze, but his voice remained even. “I will not fail.” 

He smiled. “Such unwavering conviction. You stand against not one, but two of the best fighters of the Jedi Order. Can you be so certain?” 

Quicker than thought, his blade had slipped from its concealed holster in his sleeve, falling into his palm like coming home. Maul met the stroke with a sharp movement of his own, matching him for speed, but with a brow raised quizzically. 

“Our Master wants the Jedi dead. This would serve no purpose but to tire both of us out before they arrive.” 

Logical, practical. Totally unprepared. 

“You're so right.” He grinned. 

Spun, tapped his boot, and met Maul’s side with a deft kick to his ankle. 

The Sith hissed, mostly in surprise—it wouldn't have hurt him much. In fact, concealed daggers such as these were meant to pass unnoticed, and Maul had acquired a fairly high tolerance to pain under Sidious's gentle ministrations—they both had. The Zabrak twisted around to get a hand into his hair, but he had always been quicker. He'd tucked the blade back into his boot by then, put enough distance between them at a single leap, laughing as he landed softly catlike and well out of reach. 

“I'll leave you with that,” he called back. Then he paused, a black-gloved hand raised, cocked his head to one side as if listening. “They're nearly here, after all,” he added softly, with a warm smile. “Do take care to actually kill them this time?” 

Maul angrily thumbed the switch of his own lightsaber with an indignant grunt, but said nothing, disengaged his blade and turned around to wait. In seconds he'd fallen into his version of a meditation again, gearing up for a long fight, utterly heedless yet of the venom slowly seeping into his circulation. 

 

* * *

 

_Crashing blades, violent red and blazing emerald, Darkness roiling, spilling over into the air and battering against the mind—_

Now wasn't the time to be thinking of visions, not when the Force hung still and tense, stretched taut and poised for shattering. It felt like a metaphysical bated breath, paralysed in the face of infinite possibilities flung out in a death spiral. Obi-Wan sank into it, shoving aside the thought that he'd known of this coming moment, that the vision that had haunted his dreams for years was finally happening and he knew precisely what the outcome would be. Foreknowledge wasn't of much help when everything around their opponent was warped and twisted with dire warnings, and the terror of this moment had melted into his bones too long ago to be a distraction. 

The Zabrak fought with seemingly no care to exhausting his reserves, relying as much on Force-assisted shoves and Force-propelled shrapnel as on his blade. Obi-Wan had never faced an opponent who fought like this, even when Master Giett had taken it upon himself to humble Qui-Gon and his Padawan together. The Combat Master’s favored Sixth Form relied on its surroundings as much as it did on skill with the blade, but they'd fought in a set obstacle course with no flying distractions. Obi-Wan flashed on a sudden, hysterically pitched thought that if the Combat Master had had the time before his injuries landed him on the disabled list, he might have put them through a course of moving obstacles as well. 

A blow to the jaw sent Obi-Wan to the edge of the catwalk, where he desperately snatched a precarious few seconds of balance—only to fall anyway, swearing without any particular sort of malice. Perversely he was almost grateful for that kick, at least when he finally found handholds a couple platforms below. It gave him time to reach out with his senses and reassess the situation above him. 

Qui-Gon had taught Obi-Wan to fight, but after the Stark Hyperspace War, the Combat Master had taken to watching both of them in the salles and throwing out commentary and advice. On one memorable occasion, Micah stayed to watch Obi-Wan and Quinlan spar. Quin, as always, fought dirty. Obi-Wan had held up pretty well, but three rounds into their ‘friendly match’ Micah waved him over and pulled him down to mutter a secret into his ear. 

“Pull back,” Micah had said, which made no sense. “Take a moment and pay attention to your opponent, look for a pattern. You already know how to trust in the Force, you already know how to move. You don’t need to focus on every individual attack anymore. Pull back, look for anything you can use against him. Look for your opponent’s _intent._ ” 

Obi-Wan still hit the mat a few more times that day. But on Yinchorr, that lesson had saved both their lives. 

He refocused just as Qui-Gon threw the Zabrak from the catwalk. Obi-Wan permitted himself a momentary spark of glee, sensing a flare of anger and Dark as the bastard fell. Qui-Gon, determined to press his advantage, leapt after him. 

Unfortunately it didn't seem that the fall had taken much out of their opponent. The Force told Obi-Wan his Master was tiring fast, but that was no surprise either—conditions may have been better here than on Tatooine, but they'd already faced a small skirmish on the way into Theed. The Zabrak had been waiting for them, with likely nothing else to distract or concern him. 

Still, as Obi-Wan pulled himself up and back onto the catwalk, he thought that perhaps the Zabrak’s moves had slowed, or become less precise. He stopped for a split second, pushed away his revulsion at the overwhelming rush of Darkness and forced himself to look at the Sith more closely, hunting for any sign of weakness. 

He was surprised to find any. They hadn't managed to so much as tag their opponent yet, but Obi-Wan could sense a tiny thread of pain feeding into the anger. Not even pain—a kind of numb cold. It roused a suspicion in him and he looked again, desperate to find anything that might give them the upper hand. He studied the movements, compared them to the memory of their opponent’s dance at the outset. Was it his imagination, or was the Zabrak favouring his right more and more often? 

He was also giving ground easily—far too easily—and drawing Qui-Gon along with him. It should have been obvious, yet Qui-Gon kept letting him do it, pressing forward in a relentless attack. Obi-Wan had a sudden sharp awareness of the possibility that he might not be able to catch up. 

Sith take it, they could _take_ him if they _just stayed together._

A leap upward took him to the right level, but even with the brief (and dubious) reprieve, Obi-Wan could not hope for Force-assisted speed. Lungs burning, he ran after his Master, dimly realising that the Zabrak was leading them to the shielded power generator, and that he wasn't going to make it. 

He skidded to a halt between the first and second shields just as they cycled shut around him. Far ahead, one final barrier remained between his Master and the Sith. A pity these shields couldn’t hold back the buffeting waves of Darkness that tangled the Force around him—the chaotic threads were physically distracting. Obi-Wan had the dim sense of prickling on his skin, like the memory of blistering heat and wondered what Qui-Gon, so deeply entrenched in the Living Force, must feel. He watched, almost in disbelief, as his Master deactivated his blade and dropped to one knee, to meditate in the face of this jangling discord. 

It was difficult to say at that moment whether meditation would help in the face of this raw discord or not. Perhaps it was good manipulation, convincing their opponent that they were not as far-gone after all: his Master wore serenity like a cloak, even like this, winded from a long fight and preparing for one last burst. 

But they had been a team for nearly a decade, and Obi-Wan knew without a doubt that this short reprieve would not be enough. He reached for the bond—

And ran up against a wall. Tight shields locked his Master’s mind away from him, as they never had before in any fight they’d faced together. 

It didn’t just hurt, it burned with dismissal and a baseless lack of trust. Obi-Wan felt a surge of something that tasted like anger and channeled it outwards as a distraction, turned back to hammering against his Master’s shields because that was all he had left. He had no weapons in his arsenal against this. He’d never experienced this kind of deliberate disconnect. 

The emptiness where the training bond had been was cold and glaring, now completely impossible to ignore. All that remained to him was the hope that he would be fast enough to reach his Master when the ray-shields cycled off. 

 

* * *

 

Qui-Gon was all too keenly aware that he was running out of time. The Sith had drawn him into the heart of the city’s main generator, to the melting pit of the reactor— _boxed in,_ Qui-Gon thought. Behind him, he heard his Padawan pacing. They were both riding the ragged edge of exhaustion, as their opponent had clearly intended. But so long as Qui-Gon stood between him and Obi-Wan, so long as he had the strength to at best, kill, and at least maim the Zabrak, he had no further care for what happened to him. 

So long as Obi-Wan was safe, and _alive,_ nothing else mattered. 

But at the moment he had the frustrating feeling that nothing he did or tried seemed to matter, either. The Zabrak deflected his blows almost as easily as swatting away an insect, and on the occasions that he’d met with Qui-Gon’s elbow or knee intimately, he’d brushed off the pain like water. He’d slowed down, but not by much, as if the pain kept him going. It was enough to be concerning: by now Qui-Gon’s lungs burned, his arms ached, and he felt as though he were moving through a haze. If he were to draw on the Force, even for one hard shove, he would have no strength left for anything else. 

So he did not risk it. 

As the ray shields slammed closed he stopped, and immersed himself in it instead, letting it flow through him as he had not in the last weeks. Always on the move, in a harried, haphazard rush—how had he permitted himself to forget this? The Force reached back for him, cradled him, held him. Five shields behind, Obi-Wan was desperately calling into their bond, trying to break though his Master’s shields. But Qui-Gon didn’t dare drop the barriers between them—he could not, not without betraying his intentions. 

_Oh, gods, Obi-Wan, I’m so sorry._

Damn the Force and the visions it had plagued his Padawan with, and to hells with so-called ‘fate,’ Qui-Gon thought. The Force could do what it liked with him, but not with his Padawan. 

Down on one knee, finding a moment of calm in a sea of chaos, Qui-Gon ignored the Sith pacing before him and breathed. He needed clarity for what he was about to attempt. He could not, would not fail, because failure meant the life of the man behind him. 

_You offered me your life on Bandomeer,_ he thought. _This time, let the gift be mine._

When the ray-shield cycled open, he was ready. 

It was a struggle, forcing his body out of the stance he’d used for years and just for one moment, to fall back into drilled-in habits, into a form he’d hated so much. Where Ataru was an attack, pure, straight-forward, Makashi was a fast taunt, a cat toying with a mouse. His Master had always pointed out his weaknesses like that. But it was worth it for the flash of surprise, for something that tasted like fear in the Force; fear that the Sith had not taken the full measure of his opponent. It was worth it, for that one risky lunge, landing a hit and shearing through the saberstaff and slicing easily through muscle as his momentum carried him forward. 

Perhaps Qui-Gon should have expected the blow to his unprotected side. He’d certainly landed a damaging hit, but the Sith remained stubbornly standing, while he found his vision greying and his knees folding under him. There was hardly any pain, only numbness and confusion as he wondered how the hells it had happened he’d managed to catch a blow from the Sith’s reverse-grip, and furthermore why his opponent hadn’t moved. The Zabrak was just standing there, glaring down at him with those burning, corrupted eyes. 

The cry startled him, and Qui-Gon shot upright, like a wire had been pulled taut through the top of his head. _Obi-Wan._ That awful cry, it was his voice, and with it an outpouring of anguish that broke through the barriers in Qui-Gon’s mind like nothing else could have. He nearly blacked out from the pain of it, but grit his teeth and snarled up at the Sith. For Obi-Wan’s sake. 

The Zabrak only smiled. 

_I am going to kill him,_ the dark thing said in a voice too soft to be real. _I will take great pleasure in making you watch._

Black spots were dancing in his eyes, grey touching the edges of his sight. But he was a Jedi Master, gods damn it all, and unconsciousness could bloody well wait. He wasn't about to let this _thing_ anywhere near his Padawan. 

Pushing away the rising, tingling cold, Qui-Gon pulled the Force to him with a last prayer for strength, and lunged forward, rising up from his knees with a terrible cry of his own. The Sith parried the onslaught rapidly, poorly-masked surprise turning quickly to annoyance. Qui-Gon even managed to push him back to the melting pit before the shields started to cycle again. But rather than allow his attention to be divided between two opponents the Zabrak simply stuck out his hand and brought the Force to bear, sent Qui-Gon flying across the room and into a wall. It knocked the remaining breath out of him, and he slid down to a crumpled heap on the floor, unable to do any more than gasp and watch with stunned horror as Obi-Wan dueled the relentless monster. 

He wondered if it would have been better if he could not see. Watching, _hearing_ this duel was a torment all its own. The Sith certainly meant to make good on his word, his own injuries notwithstanding. Qui-Gon couldn’t fathom how he still fought. When his Padawan vanished into the melting pit, Qui-Gon almost gave in to the pain clawing into his consciousness and let go. Only the sight of the Zabrak, still standing at the edge of that pit and toying with his prey, convinced Qui-Gon that Obi-Wan had managed to find some sort of handhold. 

Qui-Gon was fighting his own losing battle with unconsciousness. He spared a moment’s irritation for the distasteful thought that he might be killed in his sleep, put out of his misery like some wounded beast, by an opponent just as injured; and all for nothing, if Obi-Wan did not survive this. Unbidden, the thought crossed his mind that it would be better to be one with the Force than live in a world where his Padawan was dead, and the manner of his own death was irrelevant. 

This dark spiral was interrupted, however. At his side, under his heavy hand, Qui-Gon suddenly felt his lightsaber twitch. He pried his eyes open again, loosened his grasp on the weapon. Now it seemed to take monumental effort to simply lift his hand and free the blade to move. But something that dangerously resembled hope awakened in him, forced another breath of air into his lungs and then another, as his lightsaber began to creep across the polished floor with gentle clacking. 

_There._ In a brilliant emerald flash, Obi-Wan flew up out of the pit, twisting in midair to land behind the startled Zabrak. Qui-Gon heard the gasp torn from the Sith as the blade sliced through him, watched him fall, then let his head drop back, eyes falling shut. 

It felt like he’d been unconscious for hours when he heard Obi-Wan’s worried—desperate—voice calling him back. It felt like swimming through thick mud, but he fought it, fought to force his eyes open and _look_ at his Padawan and _see_ him. 

Obi-Wan’s face, pale and tear-stained, slowly came into focus above him. He blinked, once, twice, willed his eyes not to roll back. His Padawan was alive, but distress was printed in every line of his face. He couldn’t leave him alone now. Qui-Gon wanted to say something, but his tongue felt thick and immovable. 

In the end he simply threw an arm around quaking shoulders and pulled his Padawan into a tight embrace. Obi-Wan collapsed against him, trembling with exhaustion. Hot tears leaked from his eyes, a bitter reminder of the fear that had gripped him only moments ago. 

_I’m here, Obi-Wan, I’m here,_ he thought, softly sending the words down their reopened bond. He fought to keep his eyes open, desperately clinging to every word his Padawan poured into his ear even if his mind was too sluggish to comprehend the meaning of them anymore, muttering thanks to the Force over and over until he was too tired to do even that. 

Obi-Wan was alive. That was all that mattered. 

 


	2. Night Terrors

_[02.20 hours, 19.11.5199]_

 

Qui-Gon’s dreams were uneasy, full of nebulous forebodings and whispers of Dark. Wandering through that muck in a half-lucid state, he thought perhaps this was more like what Obi-Wan saw when his prescience made itself known. 

Except, that wasn’t it—he kept slipping away, couldn’t focus on anything. 

He was still trying to snatch at even a hint of awareness that skittered, half-formed, continually out of his reach when the Force gathered and screamed in alarm. He'd almost succeeded in wrenching himself out of unconsciousness, grasping for that note of panic, when a punishing grip forced him down. 

He felt a cold sting in his shoulder and almost immediately fell back, powerless to fight the sudden weight in his body. A feeling of heat spread through him slowly, and it was almost too much, prickling at his nerve endings and eating away at his awareness. He wanted to fight it, knew he had to fight it. But he had been wounded and every shred of strength he’d had was slipping away. 

“It’s all right, my Master,” a soft, familiar voice whispered soothingly into his ear. “You’re safe here.”

No, that was wrong. He _should_ be safe here, but that voice… 

His companion laughed, not unkindly. For some reason that surprised him, as though he'd expected something colder and crueler. “You always were a stubborn man, my Master. Stubborn, self-sacrificing bastard,” the voice added, laced with a bitter edge. 

That sounded more real to him, suddenly; that bitterness, beneath the caring warmth a cold and calculating edge. He should not feel safe with this voice, he should pull away—

“Ah-ah, Master, but you can’t go anywhere. You can’t hide from me.”

A dark, viscous and oily presence was pushing against his shields, and it was getting so hard to resist even that false promise of comfort. He'd felt so alone for so long, it hardly seemed to matter where that comfort came from. 

But that wasn't right, either. 

_Obi-Wan,_ he thought, reaching desperately and finding nothing. He'd shut his Padawan out, blocked their bond on the pretext of a stupid argument, and now he couldn't find his way back. 

“That's right, Master. How like you, pushing everyone away to make yourself a martyr. But you'll never be rid of me,” his tormentor added with what sounded like a sick smile. “I promise you, I'll be with you always.”

Oh gods, _now_ he knew that voice. He could never have forgotten it, but hadn't that mocking demon with his Padawan’s voice and form been laid to rest on Telos? Hadn't he, in the last six years, made peace with this nightmare? 

Qui-Gon started awake in the night, feeling like he was completely alone in a dark and empty room. Cold, electrical prickling danced over his skin, the sort of lingering sensation that someone had been watching him. He was terrified of it—too much like the long and empty years after Xan’s Fall, when he'd gone from one mission to another, waiting and wishing for an end that would not come. Heart racing, he pushed up on his elbows for all the effort cost him, dared to steal a look over the edge of his bed before dropping back, pale and shaking, gasping through the pain. 

There was the cot at his side, supporting a comically overlarge bundle. It confused him for a steady minute before he realized he'd seen desert-blonde hair, and distinguished the small form snuggled up in Obi-Wan’s embrace. Despite their rough start, the two seemed to have found some sort of common ground now—positively thick as thieves, the Force hinted. 

Though, for the moment, Qui-Gon wasn't sure he trusted it. Funny, it had been so long since he'd doubted the Force, so long since he'd questioned its every whisper. How easy it was to slip back into doubt over a nightmare, Qui-Gon thought, unsettled. Much as he tried to shake off the cold, shivering sensation and dismiss it as a dream, he knew it wasn’t anything as simple as that. He forced himself to stay awake for another half hour at least, checking his shields, desperately searching for _something_ amiss. But there was nothing, and that worried him even more. 

Finally he slipped into a half-trance, far more like uneasy drowsing, and remained trapped in a surreal pattern of stuttering time until the very first light of dawn. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually want to start with a cliffhanger, no.
> 
> Anyone who's seen this on tumblr, I do apologise for inflicting the same chapter on you for what is quite possibly the third time. It's only been making the rounds since May the Fourth of 2017. However, I have promised myself that I will maintain my pre-written buffer to the best of my ability, which means I'm sitting on new material for another two weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by aidava's [The Patrician With Mud on His Boots](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5837758/chapters/13454005), which I highly recommend, and also by flamethrower's [In a Lonely Place](http://archiveofourown.org/works/259403/chapters/405364). But, to get to precisely _how_ will probably take much longer than even the slowburn. 
> 
> I owe huge thanks to Pop, jessebee, and meggory for encouragement and beta, and to ShaeTiann for giving me _ideas._


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